That weekend, I went home to Gateshead.

Dad picked me up from the station in his old Ford. Mum had made a roast. They'd invited half the street round to celebrate the Hartley's win.

I didn't tell them about Olivia. I didn't tell them about Monday.

But Dad knew something was wrong. He always does.

On Sunday morning, he took me for a walk along the river, past the old factory. You could smell the biscuits from the bridge.

“Go on, then,” he said. “What's happened?”

I told him everything.

He walked quietly for a while.

“When I was on the line,” he said, “there was a lad called Gary. Always took the credit for other people's work. Always got his name in the factory newsletter. Got promoted twice.” “What happened to him?”

“One day the machine broke down, and the gaffer asked Gary to fix it. And Gary couldn't. Because he'd never done any of it himself.”

Dad stopped by the railings and looked across at the factory.

“You did the work, pet,” he said. “You stood up in that room with nothing but a packet of biscuits. Nobody can take that off you. Whatever happens on Monday.”